Issue Eleven-April 2013 (archive)
The interior of the vehicle is large and luxurious, soft leather seats, a well lit dashboard like the control panel of a jet. The many dials and buttons emit a cool glow that gives the inside of the cabin the same light as a candle would. The radio is playing low enough that you could detect a melody if you listened for a moment, but not loud enough to take too seriously. The smell of Armour-All and Windex from a recent cleaning mixes with a trace of the woman's expensive perfume and keeps circulating in the cool air-conditioned air. Flying down the desert highway in the car feels like being inside a well-appointed bubble traveling through space. It feels as safe and secure inside as it would feel on your own sofa at home.
The sleeping woman in the passenger seat looks to be in her early to middle 50's. She has ash blond hair that both blends well with and hides the small amount of gray encroaching there. Her hair is shoulder length with a side part, deceptively simple looking yet obviously quite expensive. Her eyes are closed and her lips slightly parted as she lies with her head tilted towards the passenger door. She has the looks of a well maintained woman. She is one of those women who are considered attractive, yet most of what makes her attractive are her expensive clothes, make-up and grooming. She looks like the kind of woman who expects to ride in luxury.
The man looks older than her, but that may only seem that way because he doesn't take the same care that she does with his skin and hair. He is weathered and tanned, good looking in a rugged way despite the very comfy surroundings. He smells faintly of smoke and talc, a not wholly unpleasant combination, masculine and natural. There are deep lines emanating from the corners of his ice blue eyes. The flesh around his eyes are paler than the rest of his face. You can practically see the outlines of the sunglasses he wears all day on it.
“I just hope I can stay awake until Palm Springs,” he thinks to himself. “If Lauren doesn't have to pee she might stay passed out until we get there. Gotta' pace myself, can't get there too early, gotta' time it so we don't pull in until daybreak at least. Timing is everything. If I get her there before the liquor stores open she might be hungover and in enough pain to check herself in straight away. But if I get her there too early and she's hungover and hurting she'll make me jump through hoops until I get her more Grey Goose. Say I score some then we'll have to get a hotel room until it's all gone. But hell you never run out of vodka in a good hotel. Shit, even in a flea bag you can probably get as much vodka as you can afford. And once we get in a room with vodka, I might not ever get her out again. Where the fuck is Dr. Drew when you need him?”
“Let me feel around, what the hell is this? ...oh, her shoe... wait... here it is, damned bottle. Must be three fingers left. Should I toss it or save it? What to do, what to do? Think, damn it! What if she wakes up here in the middle of the desert and I've tossed it? There's no place to get any more at this time of night. I'll stash it under the seat and pretend she drank it unless the situation turns dire. Act like she finished it off unless I have to use it later.”
“Thank God there's no traffic tonight, kind of spooky though. Lonely, very lonely, like being the man left behind on the moon. Ground control to Major Tom..., who was that? David Bowie, Iggy Stardust. I could use a stiff drink myself, none of that vodka crap either, a smooth, aged Kentucky bourbon would sure hit the spot right about now. Shit, I'll have to go on the wagon too once she's in rehab, providing I get her in there. Why the fuck did I let her talk me into driving her there instead of flying? No more drinks in the evening, no more wine with dinner. No beers at the pool or champagne for celebrating. The kids will be okay with it I guess, they're never at home except for Christmas and when we vacation together they can always go off with their significant others if they want to drink. They'll be supportive, they're tired of all of this shit too I know.”
“I suppose I can get away with the occasional libation after a round of golf. Shit, my golf time will be seriously limited now. Lauren never minded how much time I spend playing when she was sitting on the lanai too pissed to answer the phone. Out like a light by eight and poured into bed by either me or Lupe. But I'll be punished by her. I know she will expect me to keep her entertained because she doesn't have any real friends or outside interests. Fuck, what the hell am I saying? She doesn't even have any inside interests .Why is it you can't hold your liquor anymore woman? You used to be able to. This is not what I worked my ass off for early retirement for. It was so good for a while, breakfast together, an hour or two in the home office checking stocks and reading the paper, a bloody- Mary at the pool while we swam our laps, lunch at the club and then a nap together. Get up, a couple of rounds of golf while she shops or gets a massage or her nails done. Dinner and drinks with friends, put her to bed and if I don't feel like joining her, there's always the clubhouse where you can get lots of good conversation along with a cocktail or two. Back home to bed and in the morning, start all over again.”
“When we were first married, it felt so grown-up, playing house, starting my career, cocktail parties for clients, round-robin gatherings with the neighbors and friends. You were so blond and tanned, hair pulled back in a ponytail and I didn't have this gut. Those pretty cotton sundresses you used to wear, your skin still holding heat from the sun and the faint aroma of chlorine every time you moved. How I loved to see you shine, laughing and dancing as you lit your own way in the dark back yards of so many summers. My chest would swell with pride as I saw all other eyes on you. It was like you left a trail of fairy dust shining in your wake. A cocktail or two and you glowed like a full moon in August.”
“But then the kids started coming, bang, bang, bang. One, two, three and I'm on the road
building a business and you're surrounded by toddlers crying, demanding, needing so much. I know I wasn't much help back then, working fifty and sixty hour weeks, tired and cranky when I was home. I knew you were overwhelmed but I was determined to provide a life for you just as good or better than the one you grew up in. And I did do it, and in record time I might add and with no help from your daddy either. I could feel you withdrawing back then, but I felt I could get you back once our lives were settled. But life never really settles, does it? That's the rub isn't it? Then we lost our sweet Chicky and I guess I lost you, but back then I didn't have the strength to reel you back in at that moment. You blamed yourself, but who knew about Reyes Syndrome back then? We sure as hell didn't.
A baby runs a fever, you give him baby aspirin. It wasn't your fault that what was meant to ease actually killed. And Lauren, I have told you so many times, and I'll keep telling you until you believe me, it wasn't your fault. Just like it wasn't my fault I was snowed in, in Denver for two days while you dealt with it all. I am so, so, so very sorry I wasn't there with the two of you. So sorry.”
After that you were like a ghost, just going through the motions of being a wife and mother, fulfilling all of your duties, day after day until it became like a habit, a routine for you. Eventually the business could stand on its own, I was home more, money was no longer a problem, we had a lovely home and two healthy kids. I thought it was all better, I saw glimpses of the shining girl I married sometimes, you seemed to be coming back to life again. I guess I was just kidding myself, huh? We see what we want to see sometimes. Once the grand babies started coming I could see it in your eyes again. Did each pregnancy and birth take you back to Chicky? Or did you just decide that it would hurt too much to be too involved in case it happened again? I wish we had talked more about it. My fault I guess, I know I could have tried harder, but I didn't, did I?”
“So, say we do get you into and through rehab, what then Lauren? What do we do then baby? What will we do with those long hours between dawn and dusk without a job and responsibilities to carve them into bite-size pieces for us? Will you take up golf again so we can spend time together? Or travel? We used to talk about it, back when we were struggling and dreaming of the freedom that now looks to be our ruin. It seemed so far away back then, hardly even possible. We could go anywhere you want, the Spanish Steps, Venice, the Napa wine valley, skiing in Italy. We could tour the beaches of the world, Greece, Spain, Mauii, hell we could go to Bora-Bora if we want. Would that make you happy again, wearing cotton dresses and dancing in the firelight on some tropical beach. I can see it now, a starry night, steel drums and reggae music on a white sand beach under a summer moon as you trail fairy dust in your wake once again. Just keep driving, Palm Springs straight ahead.”
I plan on submitting my body
for medical research when I die.
When they carve the first aperture
they’ll harvest the rubble of good cigars,
the black aftermath of bacon,
a well-tested liver, nighttime scars,
and clear signs of struggle
in the brothel houses of my arteries.
Deep down a grateful heart.
Beyond all else Kierkegaard wishes
for man to realize his potential.
We’re in no position to sacrifice
until we’ve found what we can’t
Until we’ve harvested what makes us whole.
Affairs at the Villages, Florida
You’re never too old to hold and be held,
Among this ageing population proves.
Even when the hips are bad,
Even if the woman in question
Reminds your spinster daughter
Of your own mother before she died.
You’re old enough to know your needs,
And your limitations and hers,
You’re not Romeo climbing a balcony to his Juliet.
You’re happy to have the stamina to walk your dog,
Which is how you met her, walking hers.
But could you do that and still have the energy for love?
You know how you need a nap when you get home.
As dear as Romeo’s offer to wed Juliet in Friar Laurence’ cell.
If she wants to come live with you and be your love,
There will have to be sacrifices.
If your love is to have a chance,
The dogs must be put away.
he took her to the Parthenon he
laid her down among the headless trunks of women dead
2000 years or more, he held her down
and her breathing stopped and her fingers stopped
rooting and wriggling among the stones
her blue ’82 Porsche abandoned
just another relic in a place
La Gare Saint-Lazare, Arrivee D’un Train
Corot wrote, Nothing has value except
in our hunger for what seizes us.
But hunger can be but a vague yearning,
inarticulate as confused mist, obscure as
steaming plumes of smoke & suffocating
fog, overwhelming, with so much muchness.
One hunger competes with another. One
train arrives, another parts. I can’t get
my head above the clouds. On my tip-toes I
rise to meet your eyes. Yes, at last I am
certain. It must be you, both arriving &
departing, both the sharp spike taken to
the heart of perception & the answering thrust
aimless in every direction. Hear those
churning engines, unmistakable even
in the dark, calling for images instead
of a muddle of adjectives?
Lana Estepp lives in the lovely city of Richmond Virginia with her boyfriend and their dogs. Just Keep Driving is her second short story to be published in an online magazine. She tries to read a lot and write a little everyday If she were stuck on a desert island she would need enough pens and paper to last until rescue, and even then would still be able to find distractions to keep her from writing as much as she would like.
Ron Yazinski a retired English teacher who, with his wife Jeanne, divides his time between Northeastern Pennsylvania and Winter Garden, Florida. His poems have appeared in Strong Verse, The Bijou Review, Amarillo Bay, The Edison Literary Review, The Wilderness House Review, Chantarelle’s Notebook, The Electric Poet, Centrifugal Eye, amphibi.us, The Write Room, Pulsar and Crash. He is also the author of the chapbook HOUSES: AN AMERICAN ZODIAC, which was published by The Poetry Library and a book of poems SOUTH OF SCRANTON.
Rick Marlatt is the author of two award-winning chapbooks of poetry. How We Fall Apart was chosen as the winner of the 2010 Seven Circle Press Poetry Award, and Desired Altitude was named the winner of the 2012 Standing Rock Cultural Art Prize. He is a graduate of the MFA program at the University of California, Riverside, where he served as poetry editor of the Coachella Review. Previously, Rick studied English and Philosophy at the University of Nebraska at Kearney, where he also earned a MA in Creative Writing, and he is currently a PhD candidate at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. A teacher, poet, screenwriter, and literary critic, his work has appeared widely in print and online publications including Rattling Wall, New York Quarterly, and Rattle. Rick teaches English in Nebraska, where he lives with his wife and their two sons. Read more at rickmarlatt.com.
Peter Grieco is the author is a former university writing instructor who has published around 100 poems over the past five years. He is currently studying mathematics in Buffalo, NY, his native city. He enjoys studying French and composing songs for the guitar. You can find some of his music at: http://www.youtube.com/user/pjgrieco and can contact him there as well.
Holly Day is a housewife and mother of two living in Minneapolis, Minnesota who teaches needlepoint classes in the Minneapolis school district. Her poetry has recently appeared in The Worcester Review, Broken Pencil, and Slipstream, and she is the recipient of the 2011 Sam Ragan Poetry Prize from Barton College. Her most recent published book is “Notenlesen für Dummies Das Pocketbuch,” while her novel, “The Trouble With Clare,” is due out from Hydra Publications in 2013.
